


Routine

by Skyson



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reddington POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 15:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12751509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyson/pseuds/Skyson
Summary: It’s funny how quickly routines can be established, and how quickly they can be obliterated.





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little ditty I wrote after watching the S5 fall finale. So, spoilers if you haven’t seen that episode.
> 
> Fills some of that time jump gap. Lizzington if you squint.

Routine.

Routine was what opened his eyes in the morning, what swung his feet round to the side of the bed, what brought him downstairs and into the kitchen. Routine was what kept him fed.

_People talking without speaking_

Dembe glanced toward him and turned toward the electric kettle, setting the desired temperature. He then retrieved a small juice glass as Red first pulled a box of tea from the cabinet, and then the creamer from the refrigerator.

Dembe set the glass next to Red as Red retrieved a tea bag from the box. He then poured a bit of creamer into the glass while Dembe returned the box to the cabinet. Red returned the milk container to the fridge. Another moment, and then the kettle signaled it was finished boiling.

A plated muffin already sat on the counter, waiting for Red to finish putting together his supplies. Dembe began shifting about the kitchen more; gathering two bowls, spoons, and then a box of cereal. Agnes would be awake, soon.

Routine kept Reddington’s body moving, and it was Dembe and Agnes that kept his mind going.

Wordlessly, Dembe passed Red the morning paper; his daily crossword. Red added this to the tray he was putting together; his steeping tea, a spoon, the glass of cream, the muffin. Dembe gave him a side-eye as he picked up the tray, and Red nodded fussily, scowling lightly.

“Yes, yes - I’ll eat it.” He insisted. He’s been doing better about that, anyway.

He carried the tray carefully through the living room, side-stepping toddler toys that were strewn about, heading for the east side of the house. The large room back here featured big windows that offered a magnificent view of the sunrise. It was also easy for emergency personnel to filter in and out, should they be necessary.

_People hearing without listening_

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Red murmured as he nudged the cracked door further open with the tip of his shoe. He hesitated momentarily with surprise when he noticed that the chair sitting to the right of the bed had been replaced with a much more comfortable looking recliner.

Dembe.

Red smiled, a barely-there quirk of his lips that did nothing to assuage the exhaustion on his face. He carefully settled the breakfast tray atop the bedside table before he knelt one knee atop the cushion of the chair so he could reach over and brush his hand over Liz’s hair. He looked down at her lovingly for a long moment, before eventually - almost abruptly - turning and settling into the chair.

Checking his watch, he surmised that the tea was finished, so he went about doctoring it up before he even looked toward the muffin again. Sometimes eating still unsettled his stomach, so he always began his day with a calming tea.

Then, a bite of muffin. If he didn’t feel nauseous after a few minutes, he would eat the rest.

Routine, routine, routine.

“Blueberry, today,” Red mentioned aloud as he peeled the wrapper off of his muffin, careful to keep any crumbs on the plate. “I really do think you would like this one.”

Liz didn’t reply, but he didn’t expect her to.

“Let’s see,” He settled his back against the chair, momentarily appreciating the cushion as he propped his mug of tea on one knee, his crossword and pen in his other hand. “Seven down, five letters long, ‘former name of the Mariinsky Ballet’...”

Red chuckled softly, though it wasn’t with any humor.

“Kirov,” He murmured to himself, his pen scratching against the paper. “Did I ever tell you about the time I visited Saint Petersburg,” Red began, looking out the window thoughtfully as he told Liz his story.

He’d had time to tell her lots of stories, and if he ever repeated one, he honestly wasn’t sure. He told her all sorts of things. He told her things he’d never told anyone else, told her things he’d promised himself he would never tell her. Told her things that in normal circumstances may have sent her screaming from his presence. Or, perhaps more likely, point her service weapon at his chest and pull the trigger.

This morning’s story was light-hearted, though. A pleasant memory, especially surprising given the circumstances why he’d been in Saint Petersburg to begin with.

He’d finished his muffin, his tea, and over half of his crossword by the time the sound of tiny pattering feet reached his ears.

“Papa!” Agnes crowed, in the excited whisper of a child that wasn’t all that quiet. Whatever was left of Red’s heart squeezed tightly within his chest. He set aside the pen and paper for a moment to assist the little girl up into his lap. She snuggled into a hug immediately, as if she’d missed him while she’d been asleep.

Every morning, she did this. Often times it was his brightest spot in the day, though always tempered by his careful, but always consistent, response:

“I’m Red, remember? You call me Red, not Papa.” He spoke to her gently, brushing his fingers through her tangled bedhead, even as his words made him hate himself just a little bit more.

Oh, to be called ‘Papa’ again.

“Red,” Agnes repeated solemnly, then smiled at him and tucked her head over his shoulder again. Her arms were stretched out across his broad chest, hugging him best she could, as she looked at her mother. “Mama still sleep?”

He rested his cheek against the crown of her head for a moment before pressing a chaste kiss there.

“Yes, your Mama is still sleeping.” He felt her deflate slightly in his arms, and he shifted her around so she sat on his leg, her back against the armrest of the chair. “And not much help with my crossword puzzle!” He pretended to complain. “Can you help me? I don’t think I can do it without you!” He gave her an over-exaggerated pleading look as he retrieved his paper and pen again, holding them up for her to see.

She giggled and nodded, settling against his chest as he began reading the questions aloud. He thought through his answers aloud, too, and was able to make it seem like she’d come up with the right answer, sometimes.

Her laughter made him feel weightless.

He looked over at Liz’s sleeping form, hoping that her daughter’s laughter was just as healing for her as it was for him.

_People writing songs that voices never share_  
  
  


**—————  
**   


  
  
_FIVE MONTHS PREVIOUSLY_

  
He had no idea how much time had gone by before Cooper slipped back through the side door of the building, looking for Reddington’s car, finding it unmoved.

As he approached, Red unconsciously scanned the man’s body language quickly, his fist and his jaw clenching as he steeled himself for whatever news may come.

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he can’t —

Breathe.

He lowered the window.

“Raymond.” Cooper sounded as exhausted and defeated as he looked. Red’s mouth was dry as a bone. “It’s...” Cooper breathed out, and Dembe turned in his seat to look more fully toward Red, but Red was intently focused toward the man standing by the car. “Tom is dead.”

Red blinked a few times, his visceral response conflicted. He’d never personally liked the man, but he’d been Liz’s husband... Agnes’ father... and Liz had loved him.

“And Eliz—Elizabeth?” Red pressed, his tone cracking with the dryness of his throat.

“The neurosurgeon,” Cooper began, and something must have flashed in Red’s eyes, because he quickly rested his palms over the window frame. “They were able to stop the bleeding,” Cooper assured him, but Red’s ears were ringing and he felt nauseous - almost like he was a swabbie again experiencing sea-sickness for the first time.

“Raymond,” Dembe murmured, sensing his friend’s distress.

“She’s been intubated...they’ve had to put her in a coma.” Cooper explained. “But she’s alive.”

“How long?” Red managed.

“They want to keep her under observation for a little while; make sure the bleeding doesn’t start again, that her brain doesn’t swell...” There were other side-effects and issues but Cooper couldn’t list them all. He was still trying to fathom what had happened. “You found them; what was all this really about? Who attacked—who killed Tom Keen? Who tried to kill my agent?”

“Harold,” Red closed his eyes, not having the strength to get into an argument right now. “There will be a time for anger. Now is not that time. And I am not the man you need to be angry with.”

Cooper’s anger deflated almost as immediately as it had sparked up.

“Then who is? Do you know?”

“I have an idea.” Red replied darkly, new vengeance clawing it’s way through his gut, despite his previous words. “And he wants a meeting.” Red looked toward Dembe. “I’ll give him a meeting.”

“We’ll need to question him,” Cooper thought to warn, and Red looked at him sharply. Cooper closed his mouth again.

“Keep me updated.” Red ordered, and then faced forward. Dembe turned back front as well, and turned the key in the ignition.

“Same to you,” Cooper requested, raising his eyebrow slightly. “Whatever happens. I want to know... let me know when it’s finished.”

Red nodded toward him, and the gestured for Dembe to drive away.

_And no one dared disturb the sound of silence_

Almost a full month later, suitcase of bones buried once more and DNA results burned beyond recognition, Red received a phone call as he was perusing a flower shop.

“Harold! I was just considering; daisies or tulips for her room? That place is absolutely dreadful and honestly she shouldn’t wake up to—”

“Raymond, you need to get here now.” Cooper interrupted, his tone making the blood freeze in Red’s veins. Without hesitation he left the shop and got back into the car, pressing his phone tightly against his ear as if he could transport himself through it.

“Hospital, Dembe.” Red said, and no further explanation was needed as Dembe peeled onto the street and definitely broke more than a few laws getting there. “What’s happening, is—”

“They want to pull the plug; there’s no next of kin save for Agnes, who is far too young to make the legal decision, and there’s no money to keep paying for her room or the equipment.” Cooper explained very quickly, although it would still take Dembe and Red at least five or ten more minutes to get there. “There’s hasn’t been any change, as you know,”

“Which is _good_ , she’s physically healed,” Red pointed out. He understood the logistics and bureaucracy of hospitals, though, which was why he’d wanted her moved as soon as she had been stable weeks ago.

“She’s not waking up, though, Reddington. She’s still on the ventilator. And they won’t listen to me,”

“The deputy director of the FBI?” Red mocked, frustrated. He shouldn’t have been taking it out on Cooper, though. He sighed. “I’m on my way.”

“Two minutes.” Dembe promised, and Red gritted his teeth at the bloodstained memory that ripped through him.

“Don’t shoot anyone?” Cooper thought to say, and Red raised his eyebrow.

“I’m not _maniacal_ , Harold.”

“Hm.” Cooper hung up before anything else was said, and Red immediately dialed Hawkins.

“Do you have a paper and pencil?” He began without his usual greeting. “I need you to get your pal Putnam, procure the following, and find me a location where we can set it all up. Some place safe, remote, that will be all ours for the foreseeable future.”

“We got a new tenant?” She wondered over the line, as he heard the shuffle of her securing the phone against her shoulder and the click of a pen.

“Long-term.” He replied wryly. “Ready with that pen?”

He’d snuck into Elizabeth’s hospital room enough times after hours that he knew the route by heart; he was through the doors and bounding up the stairs before the desk nurse could even say hello.

He moved quickly, fedora secured low over his brow and head ducked, though honestly not caring in the moment if someone recognized him. He tried to keep his indignation to a minimum as he snarled at the thought of doctors pulling the plug on his Liz—

No, no. Can’t go there.

He roused himself from his own thoughts as he stalked down her hallway, pushing his way into her room with a firm palm on the door.

The noise and his abrupt entrance startled the doctor and nurse that were standing by the foot of her bed, and Cooper turned from beside her with a look of alarm on his face.

“Sir, who—”

“How much?” Red demanded, interrupted.

“What are you doing —” Cooper started to hiss.

“I’m moving her. How much for the transport?” Red interrupted. Cooper had called him; he was here. What the hell did Cooper think would happen; he would debate politely with the doctors over the phone?

“I’m sorry, but her insurance,”

“I’m covering it.” Red interrupted the doctor, and repeated, “How much?”

His point must’ve come across in his expression, because the nurse and the doctor shared a look, and then the nurse sighed and explained what the process would have to be.

“Whatever needs done, get it done. I will not allow you to kill her simply because you need the bed.” Red snarled, the hot flame of anger slipping through his grip a bit.

“Sir, that’s not what this is about,” The doctor protested, and Red held his hand up. The man silenced immediately, looking a little confused as to why he was so intimidated.

“I don’t care what it’s about. I have the funds, and I’m keeping her on that machine until she wakes up and doesn’t need it anymore.” Red informed him.

“That’s exactly it,” The doctor jumped onto the opening, “That could be tomorrow, that could be years from now. We simply don’t know.”

“She’s going to wake up.” Red insisted seriously, and the nurse swallowed and glanced toward the doctor again.

“Go check downstairs for an available transport van,” The doctor sighed, and she nodded and quickly slipped out of the room, no doubt relieved to be away from Red’s presence. “So who are you then, her father? I don’t care how much money you have, if you aren’t an emergency contact or related,”

“Everything has a price, doctor.” Red rocked back on his heels as he folded his hands together behind his back, his demeanor changing entirely. “And I’ve long considered giving a sizable donation to this hospital after the extraordinary work they were able to do with Elizabeth.” He paused for a beat, letting that sink in, and continued, “Your neurosurgery wing is in dire need of some upgrades, is it not?”

“Uh...sir...” The doctor was speechless, and off-put, which was exactly what Red wanted. He stepped up and put his arm around the man to lead him toward the door.

“I’m thinking, perhaps, The Milhoan Neurology Wing?” He gestured with his free hand in front of them as if reading a marquee. “Named after her father, by the way.” Once they had stepped into the hall, Red let the doctor go. “A dear friend of mine, to whom I promised to do everything in my power to protect his little girl.” He gave the doctor a look, and he nodded slowly.

“Yes... sir. I’ll send a nurse up... with the details for the transport.”

“Good man!” Red smiled and then stepped back into the room and shut the door.

“Reddington if anyone saw you,” Cooper began, and Red shook his head as he stepped to the end of the bed, lightly resting his hand atop Liz’s blanketed foot.

“It won’t matter. The address I’ll give the driver downstairs is a phony. My people will intercept, and we will take her someplace secure.”

“Reddington—”

“You called me, Cooper.” Red reminded him starkly. “I’m here.”

“Yes,” Cooper nodded, slowly relaxing. He sighed. “Her guardian angel in devil’s clothing.”

Red couldn’t argue with that.

**  
**  
—————  
  
  
  
  


“Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, For my unconquerable soul.”

He read aloud from the book of poetry, long familiar with this particular piece, but enjoying the feel of the book in his hands, and the familiar sight of the words on the page.

“In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, My head is bloody, but unbowed.”

He paused, swallowed, continued on,

“Beyond this place of wrath and tears, Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years, Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”

He sat quietly for a moment, letting the words settle in the quiet afternoon. Suddenly, a touch against his back—

Agnes was napping, so —

“Elizabeth?” He whirled around in the chair immediately, poetry forgotten, and there she was. Blinking confusedly, her hand still floating in the air where it had touched his shoulder. He grabbed at it, tucking it in close, pressing his face to her skin. “My God, Elizabeth,”

He wanted to moan, weep, laugh with joy - but her expression kept him tense. She was clearly confused, as was expected, but she didn’t seem frightened. She motioned her hand in the air, and it took him a moment to realize what she wanted. He tried not to shake as he reached for the clipboard and pen.

Whatever happened - whatever the future held - it didn’t matter to him. She was awake, she was here, she was looking at him and he knew she hadn’t forgotten him. That was a good sign; a further sign of recovery.

His routine was going to change, now, and he’d never felt so hopeful.


End file.
